Archive for the ‘Trials’ Category

I would, as an American, half a world away from all the action and media frenzy, if any, be almost a sequestered juror. Some of you who have read my prior coverage of the trial may doubt that, but I challenge any of you to cite any examples of my reporting something that had not yet been testified to in court. As I said: sequestered. Almost.

Not only can’t I discern the accents of the South African newscasters, the so-called best of the best — and there are numerous accents, not just one — but the technical acumen exhibited by SABC, as an alum who’d made it to the NFL might say, “THE South African Broadcast Network (goofy smile),” can only be equated to the middle-school TV production done by my younger son’s seventh-grade class in 2001.

As compared to most of the developed world’s media, whatever story they try to spin on one side or another (if any) is completely overshadowed by the comical presentation of its production teams. I have been, for all intents and purposes, a sequestered reporter. I have watched reporters gargle, towel off, blot their underarms, button their blouses, fix their hair (or dearth thereof), and scratch their balls.

As to sentencing. In matters of domestic violence, as a husband who has never lifted a hand to his wife of nearly 35 years, I tend to err on the harsh side. Therefore, I would not blink, and I would give him 25 years, the maximum allowable sentence for the crime of which he was convicted. (Note to Judge: He is no longer the accused; he’s a convict. YOU convicted him!) I would make this concurrent with the gun charges, because an out-of-shape 60-year-old Oscar Pistorius would be of limited danger to women or anyone else, and he would have very limited earning power at that age as well. He will have paid for his crimes.

The witness the other day who argued that prison was an improper place for Oscar Pistorius because “they have condoms there” was still silently cracking people up Friday morning when Roux first opened his pie-hole to argue Mitigation. So the jolly old weasel defense attorney played the “Oscar the Handicapped Victim” card to the max, and tried to soften up Judge Masipa by using his whiny, condescending offerings of paybacks and deterrents to society that would pay not even lip service to the real victims in this case, whining about how the killer’s debt is to society. Society, society, society. Then he brought up Ubuntu, and quoted a story in it of a goat. He equated Reeva Steenkamp with a fucking GOAT. The man is insane. Get this goddamned turkey away from the microphone. If Roux ever slept with a female of his own species, he’d know the difference between Reeva Steenkamp and a fucking goat!

I think the final undeserved slap in the face to the Steenkamps was the claim that Pistorius be given leniency was because although there were no shower rails at either the convict’s home or in the prison’s showers, his home shower came with a stool or a bench so he could wank freely between the two, and in addition be able to balance on his arse while using one or both hands, hence keeping his arms in shape to continue to work out all of his upper and lower appendages and limbs, or what remain of them. And that’s being nice to him.

On the dark side, Pistorius, with his snake-like eyes, knew VERY well who and what part he was shooting at. He’d accused her of messing around on him, even though she’d had very few (and longer-term) relationships compared to him, she’d reportedly been heard or commented to a friend that he had recently raged at her, “go ahead, fuck them all if you want,” or words to that effect, which is why he was shooting at that height. Do you think he was trying to hit a fucking pygmy in the head? If he were shooting at an adult’s chest, he’d be shooting at about 48″ off the ground. His first shot, the one that hit her in the hip, was 34″ from the floor. All shots were about the same height, within three inches. Isn’t anyone curious about his target? His first one was pretty close – the one that hit her in the hip. Just a couple of inches off target.

I was honestly very surprised to hear Gerry Nel request a minimum sentence of ten years. Even if he wants to squeeze Masipa for 15. This was a heinous crime, and the spolled, pampered little shit who committed it deserves some serious time. I figured a guy nicknamed “The Pit Bull” would have looked to rip off a bigger bite than that.

I’ve got friends who did more time than that in tougher prisons for simple possession of a joint.

What the hell kind of deterrent is ten years supposed to be? The suggested punishment doesn’t seem to fit the crimes. Let’s remember, we’re talking about multiple felonies. He’s now got three strikes on him. In many states, he’d get mandatory life without parole under the “Three Strikes You’re Out Law.” Three felony convictions, you’re out of society, and in for life.

Your comments are requested. Please note this was published IN ADVANCE OF the Tuesday morning Oct. 21 session.

When (you) ain’t got nothing, you got nothing to loseYou’re invisible now, you got no secrets to conceal…How does it feel to be on your own, with no direction home,Like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone?

— Bob Dylan (1965)

Oscar Pistorius’ defense may have blown their client away as the former runner’s murder trial continued Monday. Dr. Meryl Vorster, a forensic psychiatrist who joined the team ten days ago, took the stand and presented her psychiatric evaluation of the defendant. Oscar’s head may now be found gathering no moss on a highway near Pretoria.

She expected the court to believe Oscar was traumatically assaulted when he had his legs amputated at 11 months and could not talk. At the time he had parents and other relatives to console him and soothe him; he was, after all, a baby, and even though his mother was an alcoholic (ask anyone who’s ever been to an AA meeting what an “intermittent drunk” is), she did retain the basic ability to hold and cuddle her child and do basic mom stuff. Except for the boozing it up part.

The mother had an anxiety disorder, and she instilled that into her children, keeping a loaded gun underneath her pillow. The kids grew up seeing the outside world as threatening. Even more so because mommy dearest called the police about imaginary intruders every time one of the kids closed a sock drawer.

It was stressed to young Oscar that he should never allow himself to be seen as disabled and apparently was teased occasionally when kids were aware he was different. (Was anyone out there NOT teased at one time or another?) The need to conceal his disability caused Oscar more anxiety.

He was 15 when his mother died, and he stayed alternately with one family member or another or one friend or another for short periods of time, but never landed anywhere, and never had another primary adult attachment figure, according to Dr. Vorster’s report.

Oscar grew up with few strong emotional ties, and broke off relations with his father when he was 21, although he maintains relations with his siblings. When at home in Pretoria, he felt quite alone, and would frequently invite guests to stay over, but they didn’t always take him up on it. He had kind of an odd demeanor to him, and if the witness list is any indication, they needed their space.

Hence, he had few long-term relationships and relies on social media to remain in touch with his friends and siblings. Vorster further stressed that as he gained notoriety, he would have to prepare more and more for his appearances so he wouldn’t embarrass himself, of which he was dreadfully fearful. He needed to be in a controlled environment. He was caught in a loop.

So, today, given her diagnosis of the defendant with a psychological disorder / mental illness, and the fact that it was brought forth and entered into evidence by Oscar’s own team and accepted by the court, Dr. Vorster becomes star witness for the State in its application to give Oscar Pistorius, murderer, killer, public threat, a 30-day ticket to The PsycHotel, all expenses paid. (You do have insurance, don’t you?*) #ThingsTheyWouldSayOnlyInAmerica

This has turned into a very interesting game of chess. Roux better be on his game today. No one up there on the ceiling or beyond is going to help him today either.

Roux calls an anesthetist (not an anesthesiologist, who has an MD) to testify (speculate) as to the contents of Reeva Steenkamp’s stomach, which she was not qualified to testify about because, as she kept repeating, she was not a forensic pathologist. So where was the forensic pathologist? Ah, Wednesday. Must have been on the links, my lady.

She takes up a good bit of the morning, and then Roux pulls a bit of a shocker, but the effect is soon lessened, because AGAIN, he chose the least qualified clinician he could possibly find, save an intern, to testify — a social worker and probation officer who normally does assessments of children and adolescents after they’ve been arrested for commission of minor crimes. She specifies that she doesn’t treat the patients (clients) she sees, but just presumably listens and comforts. Also not expert witness material.

She said she first saw Oscar on Feb 15, 2013, the day after the murder — he told her he missed Reeva so much, and that he was heartbroken. Later on, he told her, she volunteered, that he “accidentally shot her,” which is not the Oscar Pistorius we’ve heard come clean in court. After the assessment, her participation should have been over, but she wouldn’t let it go.

The social worker continued that it upset her that she’d read in the newspaper and heard in the media that he wasn’t sincere about his feelings, that he took acting lessons, was crying when needed, and that he was taking lightly what happened, so on Tuesday of this week she decided to come forward because she thought he was heartbroken and traumatized.

[Takes big step backwards] So, she’s got a reason to come forward — to improve Oscar’s public relations profile and counter the bad PR he’s been getting from everyone in the media for shedding crocodile tears, crying on cue, and taking acting lessons. In other words, she’s motivated. Nothing like having an expert witness who comes in off the street and wants to do something for you, is there?

She goes on to testify to Nel, “He (the defendant) kept saying he was sorry about the loss, about her parents, the loss, he loved her, etc. And so Nel correctly calls her testimony hearsay — it’s all the defendant’s emotions. Roux got up to object to the line of questioning, and the lawyers exchanged gentle feel-out jabs with the judge, and evidently Nel seemed to win, but ended up apologizing to the judge and slightly changed his tack.

He cried, talked about the future he says they’d planned together, the loss, that he was never going to see her again, her parents and what they’re going through, and she saw a heartbroken man who suffered emotionally. She was assigned to be his probation officer as a term of his bail, and they turned over a bunch of papers as evidence of those logs. He never said he was sorry for what he had done. never showed remorse and said he’s sorry for what he did, specifically. “I’m sorry for my loss. I’m heartbroken.” But she couldn’t speculate what a person’s emotions might be after he’d shot someone. He was traumatized, he was emotional, he cried. He talked and said how he misses Reeva. Didn’t talk that day about shooting her. Sorry about what happened, sorry for the loss — sorry for the parents, misses Reeva, spent a lot of time discussing his version of what had happened, and he talked a lot about his own feelings. She checked that he was seeing his psychologist, which he was, and had regular contact with him as his probation officer in person or by phone.

The last witness of the day was a ballistics expert whom some had called verbose before he took the stand. Verbose? Anyone remember President Clinton’s remarks to the Democratic Convention in 1996? He took a record 70 minutes. His 3300-word prepared speech went close to 6000 words. But he kept his audience mostly riveted. Mostly.

This ballistics expert, who was also not a forensic pathologist, talked endlessly about ammunition and how a gun works, he referred to a semi-automatic pistol as an “auto-loader” and never did talk about a safety mechanism of any kind. Not only that, but the moron didn’t even bring a demonstration gun that looked similar but was painted with a flame-orange barrel, maybe a plug in or a bar across the barrel, and a half-functioning firing pin. So there stood Captain Boring, trying to explain how a gun worked using a piece of paper. Nice.

In my mind, and in my notes, all we got from the firearms expert or ballistics expert was that a bullet could be deflected by up to 1-3 degrees by going through a door before ripping pieces of a human body to shreds. Great. For that I stay up til 6am, and the bastard didn’t even figure in drag coefficients OR the type of wood. Fraud.

The one-hour afternoon session with this guy should have gone until 4:15, according to agreements made with other court employees before they went on a two-week break, but it went exactly one hour, before Roux begged my lady to call it a day, after taking the 1-2 hour for lunch and returning at 2 , and then at 3 they’re done, jolly old fun.

That’s how they work the day away in the merry old trial of Oz.

Mercifully, the week in court ends tonight, Thursday night (early Friday morning) in the U.S., and so a very interested — some may say obsessed — crowd on Websleuth, DigitalSpy, YouTube, Facebook, Twitter, and other social media that God knows I have no time for, will have a chance to celebrate Mothers’ Day in relative peace, as long as they don’t sneak in a nap after dinner so they can stay up all night to watch the barely competent witnesses line up for the defense on Monday.

Streaming AC360 on CNN, waiting for the Pistorius trial to resume in about an hour, and wondering what the muse will hit me across the face with this evening. The latest Cadillac Escalade commercial comes on. The background music is pretty compelling: David Bowie’s “Fame.” Now, I’m not a particular fan of David Bowie – I don’t like his politics – but this particular tune is pretty slick. Great lyrics, some very fitting in this case. So, I click off this window and over to the CNN window, and there’s this shiny white Escalade pulling up in front of a shiny white house that looks spookily similar to Oscar Pistorius’ house. Huh? (Shakes head to ensure he’s not dreaming.)

It happens more often than we think; that we’re doing something, and our attention is distracted by a completely different thing, and then something within that distraction turns out to be somewhere between borderline related to or incredibly poignant given the unrelated thing we were involved in before we were first distracted. The subconscious mind works in strange ways….

Yesterday’s testimony was incredibly boring. I believe the only thing that came out of the entire day was the fact that the front door to Oscar’s house was left almost imperceptibly open. I don’t believe I’d heard anyone testify to that before.

Both daddy and daughter witnesses spun wildly detailed versions of a very simple story, hers slightly different than his. They were very difficult to listen to, and there was no surprise Mr. Nel let them both off pretty easily. All he really needed to do was ask one question to each of the defense witnesses on cross: “And your testimony means…. what…?” Upon receiving a shrug as a reply, I would cut the witnesses free in disgust and called whomever today’s leadoff batter is. Hopefully, he’ll be able to keep me awake past tea….”

— 00:10h PDT 6 May 2014 —

The live television stream from the courtroom doesn’t come on until the witness is already taking questions. The questions are all softballs. Naturally,the husband on the other side of the Pistorius house never did hear a shot, just “crying,” which the witness described very adeptly as “crying.”

There’s weeping, sobbing, bawling, wailing, howling, all kinds of descriptive words one could use to describe a form of crying, and each has a different facet. This guy never heard of either term, in English or Afrikaans..

The woman describes something she heard as “a bang sound. There’s no other way to describe the bang than as a bang.”

Not in EITHER language you speak??? Kitchen pots falling on tile make a “bang” sound. A garage door closing on a car makes a “bang” sound too. So does a firecracker. And so does an M-80, and a grenade. But to her, it’s all the same. She describes a bang about as well as her husband describes “crying.”

Are these people totally deficient, or are they lying? Both of them have watched the entire trial, because the whole world is, and they’re his (the defendant’s) neighbors, so of course they’re interested. They were useless; time-fillers.

The next friendly neighbor stated that she woke up to hear someone crying very loud, so loud he could been in her house (questionable analogy), and after waking her husband to see if he heard the screams, which he said he did but thought they happened in a dream, she said she told him (55:30 mark) “…I thought that maybe a security guard had been shot.”

Curious, since she’d never mentioned hearing a shot, and I can’t imagine one single voice producing more decibels than a 9mm pistol. [Note to self: record witness’ impression of Oscar’s scream for use as ringtone.] For some reason, Nel didn’t catch that; maybe he was as bored as I was, listening to this tedious repetition of stuff we’ve heard so often before.

In the first place, I cannot understand how the people in the two houses next to Pistorius’ failed to hear the gunshots. Four gunshots in a bathroom, with a window open, at 0300 in the morning. Not a one of them. How can anyone take them seriously? They’ve all watched the trial, and they’re all testifying against anyone who said earlier that they’d heard the shots. So, what does that mean? That there was no gun? That Reeva Steenkamp wasn’t all shot up? That Oscar didn’t do it? How is Gerrie Nell letting them get away with this, and why, my lady, is the judge herself not getting involved in silencing these witnesses whose stories are to a great part made up specifically to dispel the prosecution’s case?

I suppose we’ll all get to see what goes down Thursday morning at Zero Dark Thirty Pacific Time, after a round of presumably peaceful elections in South Africa.

I’ve made good use of the two week hiatus in the Oscar Pistorius murder trial, watching and re-watching the direct testimony and cross-examination of Pistorius, and keeping note of his lies and inconsistencies. There were a lot of them. I made up an Excel spreadsheet and kept score. Two pages, 30 instances of his contradicting himself, using faulty logic, or a combination of both.

Pistorius was sworn in at the 47 minute mark of Session 2 of April 7th. From the 3rd session of the following day, things were going fairly smoothly. By afternoon, he was digging his way out of the grave he had dug for himself with his own forked tongue.

To begin with, when he finally was convinced to do so, the former track star called 911. We haven’t heard a recording of the 911 telephone call, but let’s take Oscar’s word for it that the 911 dispatcher told HIM to take Reeva to the hospital, OK? How likely is that? Ask any 911 operator. So that, atop all other lies, is the first one. In point of fact, there was no 911 call made by the correctly accused.

Here’s the rest of the scorecard I came up with, complete with dates, sessions, and times, as gleaned from the YouTube recordings from SABC Digital News, to whom I give thanks for their extensive, though imperfect, coverage.

The Arm with the gun in it: On 4/11, Session 1, at 2:47 and again at 3:03:55, Oscar testifies “I had my firearm out in front of me.” Then, at the very beginning of the second session of April 14, he says, “I wasn’t holding the firearm out in front of me.”

The Balcony: On 4/9, the 5th Session, at 0:22:35 he said BOTH “I went out onto the balcony to get the fan,” and “I reached out onto the balcony to get the fan.” As Prosecutor Gerrie Nel pointed out so animatedly on the last day before the two-week hiatus, he EITHER went out OR reached out. He can’t have done both.

The Curtains: In that same session on April 9th, at 0:29:30, “I closed the doors, blinds, and curtains.” But a minute and 27 seconds later, he testified that he had previously “opened the doors and curtains.” Miraculously, the blinds opened themselves.

The Fans: In that very same session, at the 34-minute mark, there was unsureness as to whether there was one or two fans plugged into the extension cord in the bedroom. At 41:50, it is revealed that on his bail application, Oscar said there was only one fan.

Who Fired The Gun? On April 11th, at the 3:17:30 mark, Oscar Pistorius said, “I discharged the firearm.” But he must have forgotten he said that, because on April 14th, at 1:29:00 of the 2nd session, he said (and try to follow this), “The gun didn’t go off. I didn’t fire at it (the door). I fired because I was scared.”

The Mystery of the Toilet Door: This is the most bothersome of the contradictions, and I guess I’ll list them in chart form, because there are just more twists and turns and contradictions in this particular part of the story than there are in a Grand Prix race.

Date Ses. Time Statement .

4/8 3 1:19:00 Heard door slam in bathroom

4/8 4 0:11:50 Pushed the door open but it was locked *(Bulletin: door PULLS open)

4/8 4 0:13:00 Kicked the door

4/11 1 2:50:40 Heard someone kick the toilet door *(Kick it open???)

4/11 1 2:50:55 Kicked the door closed *(Ohhh, you CAN’T KICK IT CLOSED from the inside!!!)

4/11 1 2:54:00 I never ever said “kicked.”

4/11 1 3:16:55 I heard… wood moving / door opening

4/11 1 3:17:00 I didn’t say “door opening.”

4/14 2 1:02:00 I heard the magazine rack moving

4/14 3 0:16:00 Put my shoulder against the small wall and tried to rip door open *(NOW he’s got it!)

* To clarify the above, 1. It was Session 2 (I corrected that before striking it out); and 2. I mis-heard the question, which was about the LIGHT in the toilet. The question came from the female associate judge, and I just blew this one. Very difficult accent for an American to make out sometimes. Thanks to the reader who pointed out the error.

So, as I think I’ve proven, Oscar Pistorius speaks with forked tongue. And this is a guy who said his story hasn’t changed from the beginning. Take a copy of his bail statement and compare it to any day’s testimony. You will find lies and inconsistencies. Pistorius has told so many lies his defense is steeped in them. Why this guy was allowed to take the stand in his own defense is inexplicable. But wait! There’s more!

There were five mentions of the Whispering Incident:

4/8 3 1:17:00 I whispered to Reeva

4/11 1 1:18:00 I whispered; told her in a soft tone.

4/11 1 1:21:00 I never whispered. I said it in a soft manner.

4/14 1 0:50:30 Nel: Did you ever whisper?

Pisto: No.
Nel: If someone said you were whispering, would they be lying?
Pisto: Yes.

So, extrapolating on all of the above, there is no longer a defense case. Nothing the defense says about contamination of the evidence will hold up. It doesn’t matter whether the duvet came first or the jeans did. The fan is sitting in exactly the spot it was at when it was originally put there, before the fatal showdown took place. The second fan was an invention after the fact to support Oscar’s claim that the scene was doctored, which doesn’t matter anyway, because he shot and killed her in the bathroom!

His contradictory testimony regarding everything and anything that happened between the bed and the bathroom should be damning enough to put this egotistical, disrespectful, misogynistic sociopath away for the rest of his miserable life.

At this point, I can’t wait for the verdict watch. Living on the west coast of the United States as I do, I’m planning on pulling all-nighters until the judge emerges from her chambers. Unless this goes like the Casey Anthony case did, I’m expecting a conviction and a sentencing of the maximum term.

Oscar Pistorius’ defense died Wednesday morning, April 9, 2014, about 56 minutes into the opening session, and again the following day.

There are so many holes in his story, he makes the surface of the moon seem smooth. No reasonable person could possibly believe his story. Simple as that. This man is incapable of telling the truth.

Everything that the Olympic and Paralympic phenomenon has had going for him — his fame, his money, his ladies, all of it — was buried by the precision digging of The Blade Runner’s own tongue, which he cannot keep still.

Defense Attorney Roux: Mr. Pistorius, did you at any time intend to kill Reeva?

Oscar Pistorius: I did not intend to kill Reeva, my Lady, or anybody else for that matter.

Roux: (stunned silence) …(ponders second career)…(pees his robe)…(asks for brief recess to change his Depends) — returns after recess and hands the defendant over to the drooling, hollow-fanged prosecutor.

He could have said, “No.” He could have said, “No, my Lady.” He could have said, “No, My Lady, I did not intend to kill Reeva.” Or he could have given any number of answers and left out the highlighted text above.

Because if he didn’t intend to kill ANYBODY, then what did he think would happen to whomever was on the other side of the bathroom door after he put four 9-mm parabellum (for war) hollow-point slugs through it?

Thursday the bloodbath continued, with the virgin firing of a Glock 19 that was in Pistorius’ hands but he never pulled the trigger! The problem with that is Glocks have a double-trigger safety. It looks like a trigger within a trigger, and if you don’t have your finger on it, you simply cannot pull the trigger, period.

I know this because I owned Glocks for years. So, the gun went off, passive tense, because he never pulled the trigger, in a restaurant, in Oscar Pistorius’ hands, but the trigger was never pulled. So far Glock hasn’t recalled its guns.

The second — well, the second, third, fourth, and fifth — virgin firings of a weapon also happened, miracle of miracles, whilst a gun was in the hands of this very same fellow: Oscar Pistorius! Who’da figured?

There he was scuttling around the bathroom floor, chasing invisible burglars in the middle of the night, the way my cats chase invisible mousies. Only he had a cocked and locked firearm.

Now, he didn’t have his finger on the trigger, as he testified the previous day when he said straight out that he shot the gun, and he certainly didn’t pull it, but again, miraculously, four 9mm hollow-points somehow made their way out of the gun, through the door in a tightly-packed group, and into Reeva Steenkamp’s pelvis, humerus, and skull, killing her within seconds.

Earlier in the day, Pistorius was shown in a video taken on a gun range, with a .50 caliber handgun, shooting at and destroying a large watermelon. After shooting and obliterating it, Pistorius was heard on tape saying, among other things, that it was softer than brains.

I think we’ve seen that, like Jodi Arias, the defendant in this case is his own worst enemy. The only difference is that Jodi Arias was physically able to put her foot into her mouth.

So, further to Monday’s surprise crisis, and my Facebook post at 3-something in the morning, I had to go down to the hospital today and sign an affidavit, unfortunately, to involuntarily commit her. I wouldn’t have done so had the psych evaluator not told me she was accusing me of having raped and tried to kill her. So, I schlepped my tired ass down to the hospital on about 15 minutes’ notice and swore out an affidavit for Superior Court, and they’re holding her for 72 hours pending (usually) an in-hospital court hearing.

I go to the check-in desk at the hospital, and ask for the person I’d spoken to on the phone, I have a seat across the hallway, and I hear a guy asking for her, so I go up to introduce myself, and he did the same. Turns out he’s the former boyfriend who, she’d told me, raped her at least five times and he regularly made her go through some ridiculous choreographed sex fantasy or he couldn’t get off.

Why he was there, I have no idea, but I said, “Oh, she told me you raped her five times. She’s only accusing me of raping her once. Think we can split a public defender?” Blank stare. Some people have no sense of humor.

I walk the 200 yards to and from the psych holding area, and sit back down in the waiting lounge. I fill out the affidavit that she went apeshit crazy and had struck me six times and brandished my own crutch at me like it was a bayonet, and the mental health evaluator came out and sat down next to me, and I showed her about ten minutes of video, which I may or may not post here at some time in the near future. For now, it’s evidence.

So, what started out to be a good deed — a service to an ex-friend whose entire flock of lifelong friends had refused to help her in any way — and I end up with 180 pounds of creepy-ass cracker bitch punching me in the ankle, hitting me in the nards, and ramming into my knee like she was LT and I was Joe Theismann. And on top of all that, she falsely accuses me of rape and attempted murder!!!

I go back in after the mental health evaluator sees the video and takes my statement, and I asked her if said delusional beast would agree to see me for a couple of minutes, which I said was kinda odd for someone who’d just been raped and nearly killed, but we all know this cracker is crackers, and she didn’t disappoint. I went in and sat down across the hall from her, and asked her why she accused me of two Class A Felonies, when I was the only one who gave enough of a shit about her fat white ass to offer her 1. a ride to Bellingham to see her shrink today (turns out no appointment – she talked into his voicemail and acted like she was confirming an appointment. In reality, she hadn’t seen him in over a year); 2. a place to sleep for the night; and 3. relief from her own mother, a nut case in her own right and a major trigger point for her daughter.

So I’m sitting across from her in the hall, and she said, “The firemen (EMTs) said you were going to charge me with assault and wanted to involuntarily commit me.”

“And THAT’s why you accused me of rapiing you and trying to kill you?” I was trying to keep my cool. “Guys have served forty fucking years after being falsely accused of stuff like that. Who says that kind of shit???”

“Well,” and she cocks her head and does what I call the by-polar blink – eyes rolled up, all that. “they said you were going to come down here and sign some papers and something about court.”

“Look you,” I said to her through my clenched teeth, because I didn’t want to show any kind of anger to the hospital people OR their security cameras, “your own goddamn mother wouldn’t get off her ass to help you, and I did, even though we haven’t spoken in months. And as thanks for that, you go on a delusional rage and ram into the fucking knee replacement I’ve been waiting half a fucking lifetime for!!? (I was getting real close to losing it.) You’re goddamn right I did, but I wasn’t going to until you accused me of everything in the book. Why don’t you let them give you a cervical exam or do a rape kit? You fucking liar!

“I just signed a court document that says you physically attacked me, and that’s why I called 911. Oh, and I also gave them ten minutes of video that proves it. So, lose my number and don’t ever fucking call or text me again or I will have you charged with stalking.”

And then I walked out into the clean, crisp autumn air of The Free State of Washington, drove home, and lit up a joint to help me chill.

Did anyone ever pay your kindness back with a flaming bag of dogshit in front of your door? Please comment if the spirit moves you, and follow me on Facebook if you really want some laughs.